Chapter Five

To Kill A King

Schloss Rothschild, Enzesfeldt , Lower Austria, December 1936.

Some twenty five miles or so south of Vienna, here in the Triesting valley, with snow once more falling heavily, the motor finally came to a stand alongside the front steps of the schloss which, with its steeply sloping tiled mansard roofs, and a profusion of chimneys, to some extent resembled Rosenberg.

The rear door of the car was opened, and a man, smartly dressed in a double breasted suit - despite the awful weather he was wearing neither overcoat nor hat - climbed out. On seeing him, the baroness smiled.

"Welcome to Rothschild Castle, sir. I trust your journey here from Vienna was not too exhausting?" Catherine, known in the Rothschild family as Kitty, sketched the briefest of curtsies. After all, she was an American, had no truck with such fripperies, considered herself to be a friend, as did her husband, Eugène, of the man who had just arrived here in Enzesfeldt. How long he would be staying, she did not know and had she been disposed to do so - which she was not - it would have been impertinent of her to enquire. One never did with royalty - reigning or otherwise - and in this case, it was most decidedly otherwise.

"I've known better". The Duke of Windsor grimaced. Nodded towards where, some distance away from the schloss, at the foot of the drive, there could be discerned a gaggle of reporters who had followed him here, all the way from the railway station in Vienna, in a pursuing rake of fast moving motors. A footman now came forward, hurrying down the front steps, to stand silently holding a sheltering umbrella over the duke's bare head.

"I'm sure you have, sir". Kitty glanced up at the freshly falling snow, flakes of which were now beginning to settle on her hair and bare shoulders. Seemingly unconcerned, the duke gazed about him.

"Yes indeed. Do you by..."

"Sir, may I venture to suggest that we go inside?" Kitty wondered why she had to make the suggestion, let alone ask. Not only was it the natural thing to do, but, it was, after all, her house. This apart, the duke seemed not even to have noticed that as the snow continued to drift down Kitty herself was bereft of any form of protection against the steadily worsening weather. Not used to being interrupted, clearly displeased, the duke pursed his lips.

"Yes," he said abruptly, his thoughts obviously elsewhere, as his next words confirmed. "Would you show me to the telephone. I must put a call through directly, to Wallis".

There was no question of asking, if he might use the telephone to make the long distance call to France. Just an assumption that he could, as of right and that someone else would foot the bill; as indeed they always did.

"Of course". Kitty smiled, standing aside to let her newly arrived guest enter her home, before following him up the steps and into the schloss.

Outside, the snow made the night its own.


Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, January 1937.

Sometime later, along with Saoirse and Bobby, while seated at the kitchen table, Sybil heard the snitch of Tom's key in the latch of the front door. Rising swiftly to her feet, and with the two children following close behind her, she walked briskly out into the hall, the swiftness of steps making the heels of her shoes clatter noisily on the encaustic tiles of the floor, only to find that Tom had already closed the door behind him and was in the act of slowly divesting himself of his outer clothes.

"Tom!"

In her hand, Sybil held out the letter she had found earlier propped on the mantelpiece in Danny's bedroom, and which she had been reading to the children, trying to explain to them what, if Danny had done as he said, and indeed gone out to Spain to fight for the Republican cause, this might mean. As to how Saoirse and Bobby had reacted, that had been a tale of two halves.


On hearing what had happened, partly on account of the fact that Danny had confided in her that he intended going out to Spain, Saoirse had been decidedly matter-of-fact about the whole business; not because she didn't love Danny, of course she did, but because there was, as she said, no use crying over spilt milk. What was done, was done. While inwardly Sybil winced at her daughter being so blunt, she forbore to reprimand Saiorse, either for her directness or for a willingness to face unpalatable truths: a trait which Saiorse had inherited from none other than Sybil herself.

Why, continued Saiorse, had it all come as such a complete shock? Danny had made his views on the civil war in Spain clear long before tonight, as recently in fact as a couple of days ago here in this very room, when a heated discussion had ensued between Da, Ma, and Danny about the rights and wrongs of the conflict, to which Saoirse herself had been witness and in which, while she herself did not understand all of what he had said, her brother had seemed remarkably well in formed. So if Danny had now gone and done what he said he intended to do, it should therefore come as no great surprise, especially given the fact, as Ma surely knew, Danny felt things deeply and always had. Even Sybil had to agree that this was indeed the case; not that she liked having it pointed out to her by Saoirse, on account of the fact that mother and daughter were, in many ways, so alike.

All the same, Saoirse was old enough to realise what could happen to Danny, given that several months ago, when Sybil had been telling Saiorse how she had decided to become a nurse, Ma had vouchsafed some of the terrible suffering she had seen during the Great War, of the appalling injuries modern weapons could wreak upon the human form: of men who had lost limbs, their sight, or who had been gassed while others had been terribly disfigured as a result of wounds or by being burned. All these appalling things and more besides Sybil had seen during her training. And which was why when, all those years ago Tom had made his never-to-be-forgotten remark about her duties as a nurse amounting to nothing more than serving drinks to a group of randy officers, Sybil had come within an inch of slapping Tom hard across the face. These days, of course, as he would freely admit, Tom knew better, and very much regretted the inaccuracy and insensitivity of his earlier remark.

As for young Bobby, when he realised that his adored elder brother might never return home, that dearest Danny might very well be killed out there in Spain, Bobby had by turns first been disbelieving, and then when the awfulness of what Ma was saying began to sink in, been very upset indeed, the more so because Bobby could not understand why on earth it was that Danny should have become mixed up in something which was happening so very, very far away. Learning that Danny ran the risk of being badly injured like the old soldier Ma and Bobby had encountered several times down on O'Connell Street, who had lost a leg during the Great War, or perhaps even killed, was just too hard to bear.

"No, Ma! No! No!" yelled Bobby, placing both his hands over his ears, as if by this simple means he could somehow blot out the awful reality of what Ma, however gently, was now trying to explain.

"Darling, I'm not saying that it will happen, but it might".

At which point, Bobby burst into tears.

"Oh, Danny, please, please come home!" wailed Bobby now sobbing uncontrollably, while his mother cradling him in her arms, did her very best to try and calm his fears.


Christmas Eve, Vienna, Federal State of Austria, December 1936.

While there was no comparison between Ripon, a small, beautiful, historic cathedral city situated in the West Riding of Yorkshire in England, and the capital city of what was now called the Federal State of Austria, for Edith, all these years later, some English traditions still died hard. And had it not been for her fond memories of past Christmas Eves spent shopping in Ripon, she might not have decided to indulge in some late Christmas shopping in Vienna, and so would not have seen what she did.

Leaving Friedrich and the two boys behind at Rosenberg, Edith had travelled into the capital on her own, the reasons for which were quite simple. Friedrich was in the midst of proof reading an archaeological report, while the press of the crowds in Vienna at this time of the year were far too great and the pavements much too slippery for Max on account of his haemophilia, and for Kurt who was after all only four. Had she brought them along, Edith had no doubt at all that she would have spent the entire time worrying about darling Max being pushed, jostled, or worse, or dear little Kurt being frightened or becoming lost.

Having caught the early morning train into Vienna, after coffee and a pastry in a nondescript little café, Edith set off to do the last of her Christmas shopping, not in any of the well known shops of the capital, but among the hustle and bustle of the eclectic, brightly lit stalls of Vienna's famous Christkindlmarkt, which these days was held on the Neubaugürtel in the shadow of the Hesser monument, and which, for Edith, had the benefit of being close to the Westbahnhof.

Doubtless Mary would have been decidedly sniffy about doing one's shopping in a market. She had even spoken disparagingly of Downton's Annual Statute Fair, saying that it attracted the wrong sort of people, not that Edith could recall her elder sister ever having visited it. Edith's first visit to the Christkindlmarkt, in the company of Friedrich, had taken place in December 1923, when the market had been held in the Freyung. Edith had been enthralled by the sheer unadulterated excitement and pleasure that the Christkindlmarkt engendered: the sights; the smells, for all manner of food, both sweet and savoury, and drinks were on sale, including mulled wine and the Nussnacker cakes which Edith now so adored; the vibrant colours; the gaiety; the noise - with bands playing and choirs singing and not necessarily at different times, all conspiring to make the Christkindlmarkt what it was. Besides which, Edith knew that what she was looking for would be found here. Nothing expensive, no more than trifles really, a few inconsequential items for Friedrich and the boys, to hang on the branches of the Christmas tree in the Entrance Hall at Rosenberg.

And, when a short while later Edith reached the Christkindlmarkt, it was to find, just as she had known there would be, crowds of people thronging the alleys and clustering round the heavily laden stalls, all made festive by many myriads of twinkling, coloured, electric lights.


Several hours later, with the bells of the Stephansdom pealing out across the city, Edith was on her way back to the Westbahnhof, carrying several small, gaily wrapped, and beribboned packages, when she caught sight of a newspaper billboard, headlining the ongoing stay here in Austria of the Duke of Windsor which, in itself, was nothing new. After all, earlier in the month, the newspapers here had reported in some detail how, following his abdication, the former king-emperor, Edward VIII, now styled as the Duke of Windsor, had travelled to Austria to stay with friends - a branch of the Rothschilds who owned an estate at Enzesfeldt which, while not neighbouring to Rosenberg, lay not that far away.

As for the matter of the Abdication, even though Edith had been born an Englishwoman, she could not summon up an ounce of interest in what had come to pass. Knew that it was a matter of supreme indifference to Sybil too. And, while Friedrich lamented the ending of Habsburg rule here in Austria, especially the manner of the passing of the last emperor, Karl, who, while still a young man, had died in exile on the far distant island of Madeira, all but penniless in April 1922, even Friedrich accepted that the Golden Age of monarchy was over and that, but for a handful of ruling dynasties, relics of a bygone age, was fast passing into history. Unlike Mary who was incandescent over the antics of that woman as she termed Mrs Simpson and the way in which the British monarchy had been dragged through the mire by the thoroughly disreputable conduct of the former king and the awful American divorcée from Baltimore.


Failing to take care on an icy pavement is singularly unwise and it was at this very moment, her eyes momentarily distracted by the words on the billboard, that Edith lost her footing, slipped, and sat down hard in the snow.

"Oh, damn and double blast!" Realising that, thankfully, she was uninjured, Edith immediately began casting about in the snow for her dropped packages and, having retrieved them, rose slowly to her feet. No broken bones and her purchases appeared undamaged too.

"Are you hurt? May I be of assistance to you?" asked a voice in perfect English, close at hand.

"No, not hurt at all. Only my pride!" Edith laughed; found herself looking directly into the eyes of a man whom she thought she recognised, but from where she couldn't say. "If you wouldn't mind just holding these for me for a moment..." Edith held out her snow flecked purchases.
"Of course". The smartly dressed man took the packages, held them, watching, evidently faintly amused, while Edith briskly dusted off the worst of the snow from her overcoat. "English?" he asked.
"Yes, but I've lived in Austria for many years. And you?"
"English, like you, but I only arrived here recently. You are?"

"Edith. Edith von Schönborn. I'm married to an Austrian. An archaeologist".

The man nodded.

"Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David. There now, take your pick!"

"Goodness, what a mouthful, but if I had to choose, then I think Albert has a distinct ring to it!".
The man laughed.

"Maybe, but Bertie also happens to be my brother's name. My friends call me David".

For a few moments more, Edith continued dusting off the snow from her coat before deciding that she had done as much as she could.

"There, now, that will have to do".

Eyeing what were undoubtedly presents, David handed Edith back her packages.

"Do you have children?"
"Yes".

"And, what are they?"
"Two boys: Max is fourteen and Kurt just four. They're at home with their father".

"I see".

"And your surname?"

"My surname? Well, that's a moot point..."

However, before the man could give Edith his surname, the two found themselves surrounded by a group of men who, while they were not in uniform, Edith recognised at once as being members of the banned Austrian Nazi Party. A rapid conversation in German now followed, of which Edith, standing to one side, understood every word. Apparently, the man's hosts here in Vienna had been looking for him, were concerned for his safety, that he might be recognised, and that the car to take seine königliche Hoheit to the meeting with the Landesleiter was waiting. A moment later, the man had been hustled away, seated directly in the back of a motor waiting nearby, which then sped off in the direction of the Schönbrunn, leaving Edith standing alone on the snowbound pavement.


A short while later as she continued on her interrupted way to the Westbahnhof, Edith was reflecting on what had happened. Those who said they had been looking for the man, who had called himself David, had referred to him as seine königliche Hoheit. His Royal Highness.

But no, surely it couldn't have been. Could it? However, if the man whom she had asked to hold her parcels was who Edith believed him to be, it would explain why he had seemed strangely familiar. If so, then her would be rescuer had been none other than the former king of England, Edward VIII, now styled as His Royal Highness, the Duke of Windsor.

Rather more to the point, what was he doing here in Vienna, meeting with members of the proscribed Austrian Nazi Party?


In the back of the speeding motor, the smartly dressed man smiled to himself. Well, this would certainly be something to tell them about when returned to the schloss, how he had played at being a knight errant, the more so given the fact that Kitty Rothschild had seen fit to chide him, calling him ungallant, for having kept her waiting out in the snow upon his arrival.

And no doubt, when later tonight he called her, Wallis would be amused to hear about it too.


Outside the Grantham Arms, Downton, Yorkshire, England, January 1937.

As she heard the motor pull up alongside her, Mary glanced briefly to her right before carrying on walking briskly down the pavement in the direction of the abbey. Not that it would have been visible from here, even without fog, as it lay still a mile or so distant. However, this afternoon, with the fog as bad as it was, it was impossible to see more than a few yards in front of her. A voice now hailed Mary out of the murk.

"Lady Grantham! What awful weather! May I make so bold as to offer you a lift in my car?"

Recognising the man's voice, Mary stopped and turned back to the motor. Saw that the driver had climbed out and was now standing on the pavement beside the open passenger door.

"Dr. Earnshaw!"

The other nodded.

"Indeed".

"Thank you kindly, but as you must surely be on your afternoon rounds, I would not presume to impose upon you, unless, of course, you are going up to the abbey".

"As it happens, Lady Grantham, I am. But then I expect you knew that already".

"Why should I?"
"Oh dear! I think I may have said rather more than I should".

"Really? How so?"

Mary paused to consider what the doctor had just said. There had been nothing wrong with Matthew earlier today at luncheon, and the four children had been perfectly fine when she left to walk down to the Dower House to see Mama so, barring a sudden outbreak of the Black Death in the last couple of hours, Mary was not unduly concerned. All the same, she ventured to ask solicitously after the children and was reassured to learn that, as far as the doctor knew, they were all well.

"Indeed? Well, in that case, Dr. Earnshaw, I think I shall avail myself of your kind offer of a lift after all. And while we are on our way, you can tell me just what it is that takes you up to the abbey".


Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, January 1937.

On seeing the letter of which Danny had spoken to him in Delaney's bar, recognising the writing, knowing what it contained, Tom nodded his head, before smiling briefly, first at Saoirse, and then at Bobby, not failing to notice his tear-stained face..

"I know about it," Tom said, softly.

"You do? But how..."

Not for for the first time in his life, Tom felt every one of his advancing years.

"Darlin', an hour since I was standing down on North Wall Quay watching Danny and his pals sail for Spain," he said wearily.

"No". Sybil shook her head. "I don't believe you". She began to back away from Tom until, bumping into the small table behind her, she found she could go no further.

"It's true enough, for sure".

"I don't believe you".

"Sybil, darlin', I'm not joking," Tom said, suddenly sounding very tired.

"I don't believe..."
"I'm telling ya the truth. Ya know I am," he said quietly.

"Tom, he's our son! You can't just have let Danny go... Why on earth didn't you try and stop him?" Sybil sounded incredulous, as well she might.

"What would ya have had me do? Run up the gangway and drag him off the steamer by force in front of all his pals?"

"If that was what it took to make him see sense, then yes!"

"Darlin', he's not a little boy any more. He's all but eighteen".
"I don't need reminding how old he is!" snapped Sybil. "I was there when he was born, remember?"

Tom nodded. For a moment he was back seated at the wheel of the Renault, watching as Downton burned.

"So, was I," he said gently.

"Then what happened? For God's sake, Tom, why didn't you stop him?" Fighting back her tears, Sybil was on the point of berating Tom further, for not having prevented Danny from leaving Ireland but, seeing just how downcast he looked, she fell silent, instead tightened her grip on the edge of the table behind her.

"Darlin', I'll tell ya everything. Promise, I will. But just now I'm cold, bone weary, and dog tired. Is there any tea left in the pot?" Tom asked commonplace, the prosaic nature of his question going some way to help lessen the mounting tension here in the hall.

"Yes, of course, I'll go and..." began Sybil dully. She half turned, was about to retrace her steps to the kitchen when she heard Tom sigh. Whirling round, Sybil saw him close his eyes, his shoulders slump dejectedly, before crumpling down in a heap on the floor, to sit with his legs outstretched and his back resting against the front door.

"Da!" hearing the alarm in his son's voice, Tom opened his eyes; looked up at Bobby.
"It's all right, son. Don't worry. I'm just feeling very tired, for sure".

Quite unexpectedly, for once unusually sensitive to her parents' mood, Saoirse interposed.

"For sure, there is, Da. C'mon, Bobby, let's wet the tea!" Without further ado, taking her young brother firmly by the hand, Saoirse led Bobby back into the kitchen from where, a moment or two later, there came the familiar sound of the kettle being filled with water, followed by a rattle of china, while out in the hall, husband and wife continued to face each another.

"Sybil, darlin', I don't want us to quarrel about this," Tom said hoarsely.

"Neither do I," said Sybil, brokenly and without rancour. Her voice breaking with emotion, she swiftly closed the short distance between them; sank to her knees on the floor, letting Tom cradle her in the comforting circle of his strong arms.

"What we have to believe in all of this, is that one day Danny will come back safe and sound. Not just for his sake but for all of us. For, what else is there to do?"


Lobby, King David Hotel, Jerusalem, British Mandated Palestine, January 1937.

Eccles had to agree; their present surroundings were far more convivial, far more comfortable, than standing atop a windswept bluff out in the Judean Hills. Having been served drinks by one of the several smartly attired waiters, each of whom sported a traditional scarlet fez, the Csákys and Eccles were seated in leather armchairs in a corner of the beautifully appointed, many pillared, marble floored Levantine lobby of the King David Hotel where, from behind an artfully placed arrangement of potted palms seated in easy chairs they might see but not be seen and so observe discretely the many varied comings and goings taking place here, in the most luxurious hotel in all of Jerusalem.

"Now, what brought us in search of you, what I am about to tell you is highly confidential..."


Eccles was incredulous, as well he might be, given what he had just learned.

"My God! A plot... to assassinate, His Majesty George VI, during the Coronation and, in the resulting confusion, bring about the return to the throne of his elder brother, the former king, who is known to be well disposed towards the Nazi regime in Germany".

"Just so. And while I understand your incredulity, there are many in the British Establishment who would approve of, even, I venture to suggest, welcome, such a turn of events. Those who consider an alliance with Germany to be the natural course of things, one which is infinitely preferable to the alternative ... of another European war, which many, quite understandably, wish to avoid".

"Such as members of the Anglo-German Fellowship, Mosley and his Fascist, black shirted thugs..."
Harriet nodded.
"Indeed, but there are others who, while not so overt in their support, would, nonetheless, welcome a rapprochement with Nazi Germany. Within the SIS it is known that, even in the Foreign Office, there are those who are sympathetic to such a denouement. The stark fact is that they may yet win. After all, as Lord Grantham would no doubt tell you, Fascism is on the march right across the face of Europe, in Italy, Germany, Portugal, Roumania, and now in Spain".

"And in the Kingdom of Hungary, the Regent's government has, out of political necessity, aligned itself with both Italy and Germany," added Tibor. Seeing that their glasses were all but empty, he signalled to one of the waiters to bring another round of drinks.

"What of His Royal Highness, the Duke of Windsor?"

"What, indeed? By all accounts an indolent, selfish man, wanting the privileges of his birth, but none of its duties. Nonetheless, someone who it is known would not be averse to being restored to the throne.

"And the Nazis in Germany would be party to that?"
"Quite so. And not only in Germany, but also in Austria too, where the duke is presently staying".

"There are rumours circulating to that effect?"

"Oh, rather more than rumours".

"Really?"

"Let me be perfectly frank".
"I wish you would be".
"Very well then. There are those who will tell you, have you believe, that the Duke of Windsor is a much wronged man. As they would have it, he was hounded from the throne by that arch humbug Baldwin and who, following his enforced abdication - as the duke considers it to have been - indulges in prolonged, rambling bouts of whining self-pity to anyone foolish enough to listen, spending the much of his time drowning his understandable sorrows in a self-induced state of near permanent intoxication. However, as Prince of Wales he once told a German relative that Britain had no right to interfere in Germany's internal affairs either re Jews or re anything else, that dictators are very popular these days and that we might want one in England before long. With the former king expressing views like that, and Herr Ribbentrop, who has little understanding of the British, having said that he could not understand why the ex-king did not shoot those of his ministers who disagreed him over his intention to marry Mrs. Simpson, that the duke and his future wife are pro-German is hardly surprising. The more so since Mrs. Simson and von Ribbentrop are rumoured..." Harriet paused; looked directly at Eccles.

"She and von Ribbentrop are rumoured..."

"To be lovers".

"Good God!" Eccles gulped back what remained of his whisky and set down his now empty glass with a sharp rap.

"I've surprised you!"

"You certainly have! In essence then, the view in Whitehall is that the duke would be prepared to take the throne again, even if it came at the price of his younger brother losing his life?"
"In a nutshell, yes".
"And the would be assassin, a deserter, from the Transjordan Frontier Force, who is now in the pay of von Ribbentrop and the Nazis, has gone to ground somewhere in England?"

"So it is believed".

"Only believed?"

"Our people were closing in on him in London when he managed to give them the slip and disappear".

"How singularly careless of them. Well, with the Coronation not until May, time enough, for him to be found".
"Maybe. But, that is now scarce four months away, to find the needle in the proverbial haystack, and time is fast running out".

"And how does this concern Lord Grantham?"

"The deserter, by the name of Armitage, Sergeant Edward Armitage to be precise, was born on the Downton Abbey estate. Youngest of four children, father killed in the war, in and out of trouble ever since he was a boy. Worked as an under keeper on the estate for a while but was caught housebreaking and sent to prison. Freed from Armley Gaol in '31, then aged twenty, more for his mother's sake than anything else - she still lives in the village - Lord Grantham gave Armitage another chance by helping him join the Transjordan Frontier Force in which he gained a reputation of being something of a crack shot. To begin with all seemed to go well. Then, about a year or so ago, reports began to filter through, one of which came from Lord Grantham's brother-in-law, the Austrian archaeologist Friedrich von Schönborn, concerning a flourishing trade in stolen antiquities in which a British soldier, an NCO, was said to be implicated. Things took a decided turn for the worse when a young Arab in the Frontier Force, suspected of being complicit in the matter, was found murdered. Shot through the head".

"A falling out among thieves?"

"That's the way it looked. Or was made to look. But when further enquiries led, inexorably, to Armitage, it was found that he had disappeared... absconded. Presumably he was forewarned and then spirited out of the country. By whom remains something of a mystery. However, I think we may safely say that the Wilhelmstrasse had a hand in it as a couple of days ago a man believed to be Armitage was seen leaving the German Embassy in London. Thereafter he vanished; although later that same day a man answering to his description was seen boarding a train at Kings Cross. The assumption is that if he was indeed Armitage, then the view is that he was making his way back to Downton to lie low until the Coronation. After all, he would know the district like the back of his hand, where he could hide out, and so forth".

"What is it that you would have me do?"

"When you reach England, make immediate contact with Lord Grantham. Tell him what you have learned. Impress upon him the seriousness of the situation. Find out if the rumours regarding the whereabouts of Armitage are true".
"And if they are and he is found?"
"Then no doubt Lord Grantham can be relied upon to do what is necessary in that regard".

Eccles nodded.

"So be it. But, surely this information should have been acted upon far sooner".

"It was, but our first messenger made it no further than Vienna. His body was fished out of the sewers there scarce a week ago. His successor reached Paris but then he too disappeared". Harriet spread her hands expansively.

"And you think I may fare somewhat better?"
"Let's just say that we have every confidence in your abilities to succeed where others have failed. All the same, I would urge you to take every possible precaution. How this will play out none of us can tell. Everything now rests on finding Armitage. Above all, the life of the king".


Estate Office, Downton Abbey, England, January 1937.

Having spoken with Tom at some length, having learned foremost that, in the company of several other Irish Volunteers, Danny and two of his friends had already sailed from Dublin for Bilbao on the north coast of Spain on board a Dutch tramp steamer, and that Sybil, while not blaming Tom for what Danny had done, was understandably beside herself with worry, as well she might be, Matthew wearily replaced the telephone.

While there yet still remained the possibility that the Pieter would be detained in Spanish waters by vessels of the Nationalist navy, since on the outbreak of the civil war most of the former Spanish navy had declared for the Republic, this was something of a forlorn hope. And, even if the Pieter was prevented from reaching Bilbao, what then would be the fate of those on board who had sailed into Spanish waters with every intention of joining the Republican cause? Given some of the reports now reaching England from out of Spain, of all manner of atrocities being committed - by both sides - there was every prospect that individuals such as Danny and his compatriots would, at the very least, find themselves interned, or more than likely made an example of in order to deter others by being put up against a wall and shot.

Leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him, settling his chin on his interlaced fingers, Matthew sat staring into space. The League of Nations had proven worse than useless in preventing the civil war in Spain and had no influence to wield in what was becoming an increasingly bitter conflict. Save for friends of friends or the distant kin of associates such as Alice, the comtesse de Roquebrune, all of whom lived in areas held by the Nationalists, Matthew had no contacts down there in the Iberian peninsula that he could call upon to try and extricate Danny and his pals from the likely consequences of their own folly. So, what to do for the best?

And if this damnable business of Danny wasn't enough, Mary was being difficult over Robert travelling out to join Friedrich and Max in Palestine. He was almost seventeen and it wasn't as if he would be going alone. This apart, notwithstanding the continuing worries over the state of his own health, there was now something else which was preying on Matthew's mind, and for which, this time, he had the Foreign Office to blame. Again he had kept the matter privy from Mary, but the time was fast approaching when she would have to be told. And why. Quite what Tom and Friedrich, let alone the rest of the family would make of it when word of what was afoot leaked out, as surely it must, Matthew could not begin to imagine.

But then never before had Downton Abbey played host to a leading member of the Nazi Party. However, now, at the secret behest of the Foreign Office, in a few weeks' time, it was to do just that, with the earl and countess of Grantham having graciously extended an invitation to stay at the abbey to Joachim von Ribbentrop, Nazi Germany's ambassador to the Court of St. James.


Somewhere Out In The Atlantic, January 1937.

Having threaded her way slowly down the fogbound reaches of the Liffey, and thence out into the broad expanse of Dublin Bay, with the coast of Erin now but a distant memory, holding to a more or less southerly course, the Pieter steamed resolutely onwards through the Irish Sea where, for those on board, despite the time of year, the weather for the moment proved deceptively benign: dry, cold, and bright, at times even sunny, the waters slightly choppy, but certainly nothing more than that.

It was much further to the south, with the Pieter having sailed out into the Atlantic Ocean, when passing west of the Isles of Scilly and the Bishop Rock Lighthouse, perched high up on its lonely skerry, that, with very little warning, the barometer dropped like the proverbial stone, and the weather deteriorated dramatically. With the wind having strengthened from northeast by east, the most dangerous quarter, the tramp steamer was soon rolling heavily in mountainous seas, buffeted by the ferocious, storm force, sleet flecked wind, the strength of which constantly flattened the column of smoke emerging from the steamer's funnel into a dirty black pall.

Snug inside the quarters which had been allotted them, Danny and the rest of the Volunteers did their best to stay seated or else lay in their bunks, chatting and playing cards, trying to take their minds off what was happening outside, something which proved increasingly difficult to do, what with the constant pitching and tossing of the steamer, and with many of the Volunteers becoming very sea sick indeed. And, while he did not come off completely unscathed, Danny, whose stomach was one of those least affected, wondered if Da had been gifted with Second Sight when, with a wry smile back in Dublin he had asked if they all knew how to swim: for the survival of everyone on board now depended on a whole series of ifs.

If the Pieter was not overwhelmed by the enormous waves, the crests of which were constantly breaking high above her bows; if the sheer volume of seawater did not stove in the rusty plates of her hull or breach the wooden cargo hatches; if the rudder and steering gear held; if the triple expansion single engine did not cease functioning; if the pumps kept working, and if they could continue to make headway against the terrific strength of the wind, then they had a chance of riding out the storm.

If not ...

Author's Note:

Following his abdication in December 1936, the Duke of Windsor did indeed go and stay at Rothschild Castle in Lower Austria, then the property of Baron Eugène Rothschild and his American born wife, Catherine. At this time, with her divorce from Ernest Simpson not yet finalised, Wallis Simpson was in France, staying with friends at the Villa Lou Viei in Cannes.

The Federal State of Austria, a one-party, clerical, Fascist state, came into being in 1934 and lasted until the Anschluss in 1938.

While the tradition of holding a Christmas Market in Vienna dates back centuries, during the 1920s and 1930s its location moved several times.

Nussnacker - a rich speculoos cream swirl set on a gingerbread base and sprinkled with coarsely chopped nuts.

Unveiled in 1909, the Hesser Monument commemorates an incident which occurred at the Battle of Aspern in 1809 during the Napoleonic wars.

Freyung - an historic, triangular shaped square situated in the First District of Vienna.

Landesleiter the title by which Josef Leopold (1889-1941) leader of the Austrian Nazi Party was known.

In my stories a serious fire breaks out at Downton Abbey and, in its immediate aftermath, Danny is born in the Cottage Hospital.

Wet the tea - an Irish phrase meaning to make tea.

Following a speech made in 1935 by the Prince of Wales (later Edward VIII) calling for a better understanding with Germany, the Anglo-German Fellowship was established to safeguard peace in Europe. Its supporters included members of the House of Commons, the House of Lords, and many leading commercial corporations. A reciprocal organisation, the Deutsch-Englische Gesellschaft, came into being in Nazi Germany that same year, under the watchful eyes of Joachim von Ribbentrop.

that arch humbug Baldwin - Stanley Baldwin (1867-1947) Conservative politician, and, at the time of the abdication crisis, Prime Minister, who was prepared to tolerate Wallis Simpson as "a respectable whore" but not as queen.

In July 1940, the SS orchestrated a plot, codenamed Operation Willi, in which the Duke and Duchess of Windsor would be lured from Portugal across the border into Fascist Spain there to be kept under house arrest for their own protection and then, after Germany's occupation of Britain, restored to the throne. The existence of this plot was the starting point for this story. So, what if - history is littered with what ifs - there had been an earlier plot ...

That von Ribbentrop and Wallis Simpson were lovers has been reported many times, as indeed has the allegation that the Duke of Windsor was incapable of normal sexual intercourse. Make of such reports what you will!

Established in April 1926, the Trans-Jordan Frontier Force replaced the disbanded British Gendarmerie. Its purpose was to defend Trans-Jordan's northern and southern borders. The Emir Abdullah was its Honorary Colonel.